“You think so?” broke in the other, bitterly.  “What! not when one’s mother is to blame, for instance?  Well, please begin.”

“I had much rather not,” said the chaplain.  “It would be much better for you to get the newspaper report of the case—­I can tell you the exact date—­and read both pro and con.”

“No report was ever published, Mr. Whymper; the case was heard with closed doors, or suppressed by Carew’s influence.  So much, perhaps—­to judge by your face—­the better for me.”

“I think it would be better for you not to hear it, even now, Mr. Yorke,” returned the chaplain, not without a touch of tenderness in his tone.  “But, if you insist upon it, come to my private room, and let us breakfast together first, then we will have the story over our cigars.”

Accordingly, the two repaired to the apartment in question—­a very snug one, on the ground-floor, but so strewn with documents and letters that it resembled a lawyer’s sanctum.  The morning meal—­which, in the host’s case, consisted of a game-pie and a tankard of strong ale—­having been here dispatched, and their cigars lighted, Parson Whymper began as follows: 

“It must have been in the autumn of 1821 that Carew finally left school—­the public school of Harton.  He got into some difficulties with the authorities—­refused, I believe, to apologize for some misdemeanor—­so that he had to be privately withdrawn——­”

“I beg your pardon there,” remarked Yorke, hastily.  “He was expelled, as I happen to know for certain.”

“Very likely,” said the chaplain, slowly expelling the smoke from his lips; “indeed, I should say most likely.  But remember mine is professedly an ex parte statement.  Mrs. Carew—­I mean Mrs. Carew the elder—­is solely responsible for it.  Of course, she softened down the facts against her son, and I have no doubt made compensation for so doing by highly coloring the offenses of her daughter-in-law.  I told you, you would not like the story.  Is it still your wish that I should proceed with it?”

“Yes, yes,” said Yorke; “go on.  I was a fool to interrupt you.”  But the chaplain noticed that the young man held his open palm before his face, under pretense of shielding it from the fire, and that his cheeks grew scarlet as the tale went on, nevertheless.

“Carew was not seventeen then, when he left school for the house of a gentleman of the name of Hardcastle, in Berkshire, as his private pupil.  It was understood that he was to have his particular care and attention, but not his exclusive services.  There were one or two other pupils—­rather queer ones as it would seem; but Mr. Hardcastle advertised in the newspapers for lads of position, but neglected education—­young fellows, in short, who had proved unmanageable at home—­and undertook to reform them by his system.  It was no wonder, then, that Carew found some strange companions.  The strangest of all, however, under the circumstances, was surely the tutor’s niece, Miss Hardcastle herself.”